


The Night Leaves Me Restless

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Carnival, M/M, Magical Realism, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's phone buzzed in his pocket. He clenched his jaw when Pete's name showed on the screen under the tiny envelope icon. He looked up at Joe, who was still snuffling in his sleep, and back down at Pete's pale face. <i>ride w/ me ric</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Leaves Me Restless

_The night leaves me restless  
I cannot sleep for I watch the carnival  
and the evil and goodness of all souls._

-Watching Carnivals, Joel L. Young

_The buses were dead._

Patrick had been repeating it to himself, staring forlornly at the giant hunks of not working, not cool, not going anywhere on this plane of existence, dead buses. It wasn't doing much except remind him that home was forever and a border away. He hated Mexico because it somehow had killed _both_ of their buses.

"We should have ridden donkeys," Pete said from his perch on one of the tipped up wheels. 

"Yes, exactly." Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "We should always tour from the backs of pack animals." Andy patted his shoulder sympathetically. "This is your fault somehow."

"I was sleeping." Pete crossed his arms over his chest defensively, sniffing once. Patrick raised his eyebrows. "Okay, fine, whatever. I was jerking off. But still. My solo tug of war had nothing to do with the tragic bus deaths."

One of the bus drivers popped up from Team Pete's bus, face smudged with grease, hat cocked to the point of falling off. He wiped a dirty hand over his forehead, and the look on his face was enough for Patrick to begin the mourning process. He had _liked_ his bus. 

"Could have crashed," Mixon said around a hunk of pineapple. He shrugged at the group glower. "Just saying. Everyone's peachy-keen. Just, you know, late."

"We're going to have to cancel shows." Pete kicked his heels against the tire under him, lips drawn into a grim line. Canceling shows always upset him. Looking around, Patrick could see the dark look of disappointment on Andy and Joe's faces too.

"Mexico blows." Patrick toed at the dirt irritably and frowned.

"Hotel?" Joe asked.

"Damn straight," Pete replied.

They ended up riding on the damn donkeys. Pete rode his gleefully, slow-racing Matt down the twisting path. Joe followed close behind, leaving Patrick and Andy fighting with their stubborn rides. It was every bit as horrible as Patrick had expected, and it smelled even worse.

At the shitty little motel, Pete checked out two rooms, presenting keys- real keys, no cards here- like privileges. Patrick caught the dangling six Pete pressed into his palm and noticed the matching key wrapped around Pete's wrist like a bracelet.

"Mix, you up for another round of UNO?" He asked, proud when the panic in his chest didn't rise up into his voice. Stage fright had apparently paid off in something. 

"The rockstar life," Mixon said cheerily as he threw an arm around Patrick's shoulders, squeezing him in too tight. His shirt smelled like sweat and donkey, and he was possibly close to breaking one of Patrick's ribs, but Patrick would rather be there, broken bones and all, than stuck alone with Pete. He just. Couldn't. Not yet.

"You're actually more of a groupie," Joe mused, leading the way to their room. “Or maybe a roadie.”

Patrick flinched when Pete wrapped a hand around his arm, tugging him free from Matt's loose hold. Matt raised his eyebrows, looking to Patrick for confirmation. Patrick shook his head, watching Mixon jog to catch up with the others. Then they were alone, stranded in the vacant lobby together. Patrick felt trapped.

"Patrick, can you just-"

"No, Pete," Patrick said, pulling his arm back. He felt separated, so close and so fucking far away. "No, I can't."

"Please." Pete reached for him again. He stopped before he made contact, hand hovering awkwardly in the air for a moment before he dropped it. "I miss you."

"This isn't the time," Patrick said, staring at the carpet. "It's never going to be the time."

"Don't make me beg." Pete's face was blank, eyes dark and the shadows under them familiar in uncomfortable ways. He looked young and Patrick hated him for it, hated him for knowing what strings to pull.

"Just let me go, Pete." Patrick turned away, jogging in the direction Joe had gone. He didn't want to see Pete's reaction. 

The room was more like the shittiest cabin ever. One wall was painted an obnoxious, sunny yellow, bleeding into the ugly browns of the other walls. There were two windows. One faced the, oh good grief, outhouse, and the other was covered by thick boards, rusty nail heads protruding just far enough for Patrick to fear tetanus. Two mattresses of varying ugly lay crammed together against one wall, two quilts folded at the foot of each. Across from them, a vanity stared at them with its broken mirror, drawers close to falling out. The carpet was, thankfully, too dark to notice any stains. Patrick didn't want to think about stains.

"This might actually be worse than Chris' basement," Joe said as Patrick opened the door. They were still clustered in the middle of the room, surveying the grounds. 

"I don't think 'worse than Chris' basement' exists." Andy dropped his duffel. "I'm gonna try the shower, If I die on the way back, Mixon still doesn't get my iPod." 

"Your cruelty burns," Matt said, pumping his hands over his heart. "It burns me deep." Andy rolled his eyes and headed out, towel and shorts in hand. "So, Stump. Do you actually want to play or are you just gonna hole up?"

"You're a terrible groupie." Still, Patrick rummaged through his bag until he found the beaten box of cards, tossing them at Matt. He only felt a little envious when big hands plucked the box out of the air without effort.

"Only Andy puts out. It's a lonely life."

"My brain will never be clean again." Joe rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. " _Ever_."

"My life's mission is complete." Matt said as he flopped down onto the nearest mattress. "You know," he said slowly as he began dealing, "you're going to have to talk to him sometime."

"Dude, just. Don't." Patrick stared down at his cards, legs tensely folded under him. Matt didn't say anything else, but his eyes didn't stray far away.

\---

Mixon was a fucking beast at UNO. 

Patrick frowned at his cards, eying the rope bracelets around Matt's wrists for hidden cards. Joe, who had opted out in favor of munching down on the terrifying local cuisine, just laughed as Mixon once again took the round.

"Just say it, Stump," Mixon crowed, flexing one arm. "I am lord and master of the deck. _Say it_." Before Patrick could concede to Matt's apparent greatness, his phone buzzed in his pocket, then again when Patrick didn't answer. Patrick set his jaw and reached for the mess of cards on the floor.

“Best out of six,” Patrick said, shuffling. Joe popped an M&M and laid belly down on the floor.

“This is kind of like a really awesome movie,” he mused. “Except for how boring it is. If Hurley were here, I’d make a bet on Mix.”

“You’re a terrible friend,” Patrick replied blithely, dealing the cards out. Joe waved him off when Patrick tried to deal him a hand and Patrick pulled a face.

“You love me, Stump.” Joe tossed an M&M at him, snorting when it bounced off of Patrick’s head to land on the carpet. 

“I’ll love you,” Mixon leered, gathering up his hand. “I’ll love you good, little man.” Joe scrunched his eyes shut, throwing an arm over them dramatically. 

“I feel ill. You made me ill.” He laughed when Matt rolled onto him, latching onto his sides, long fingers digging in. Patrick grinned. It was fine. Things were cool here.

Patrick’s phone buzzed again, quick and angry against his thigh. He felt Matt and Joe roll to a stop next to him, resting against the mattress. Before he could talk himself out of it again, Patrick yanked his phone from his pocket and flipped it open. A tiny picture of Pete- smiling and stupid, Patrick’s hero from so, so long ago- sat above the tiny text message icon.

_i go places sumtimes. the places dnt have u and i need u w/ me._

Joe pressed his side up against Patrick's, solid and warm and familiar. Very carefully, Patrick set his phone on the floor and pushed it away. The weight of Matt and Joe's stares were crushing him.

"Patrick-"

"No."

Mixon nodded, folding the cards back into the box. There was a line, deep and tense, across his jaw, a shadow under his eyes. If Patrick stared at his hands, he could feel Pete in the room. If Patrick touched the soft inside of Matt's wrist, his heart twinged. 

Patrick's phone buzzed again, jumping its way across the carpet, closing in towards Patrick's socked foot. Patrick's arm felt tight as he reached for it, fight or flight building up in his bloodstream. He flipped the phone open and frowned.

_331 Rio Blvd._

Under the address was a strange symbol, nothing a keypad could produce. It looked something like a spiral cut into quarters, something that maybe could have been a compass at one time, twisted around into something else. Patrick stared at it, eyes narrowed. A sudden crash made him toss his phone into the air, scrambling back against Matt and Joe like a frightened puppy.

"There's something wrong with Pete," Andy said from the doorway. 

Patrick's heart sank. He was up, tugging his shoes on before the sick feeling in his gut could register. Dimly, he could hear Joe calling after him, could hear the pound of Andy's footsteps behind his as he ran towards room six, all the way across the lot.

The door was still open, the ugly mud brown walls sickly lit with the dresser lamp. Patrick tripped over the bag shoved near the door as he ran through, toppling down onto his hands and knees. It jarred him, sent shocks of pain up his thighs, the carpet rubbing patches of his palms raw. Ignoring the screaming of his kneecaps, Patrick ambled to the mattresses.

Pete was passed out, unconscious and unresponsive to the worried touch of Patrick's hands to his face. He felt too hot, skin dry and pale. He was shirtless, sleep pants rolled around his hips to keep them up, curled on the bed like a child. Patrick's heart thudded, and it was his fault because he should have been here, should have been curled in beside him, shouldn't have left him alone, shouldn't have left him ever. 

"We were talking," Andy said softly, kneeling down on the floor next to him. His hair was still damp, curling around his face. "And he just. Fell over." Somewhere, behind them, Joe was talking to the police, his voice harried as he spoke in half-remembered high school Spanish, pacing from the door to the bathroom. He didn't remember the word for ambulance, and he kept repeating it, louder and louder, until it was like a chant, the only think Patrick could hear.

Patrick shrugged Andy's hand off his shoulder, throwing himself at Pete's bag and ripping it open. He threw Pete's things angrily to the side, digging for the pill bottles he knew were there, the blood rushing in his ears drowning out Mixon's soothing noises. 

The bottles were full, all of them.

Patrick launched them across the room, showering the carpet with falling blue and yellow confetti. A sick knot of fear tangled itself in Patrick's gut, and his heart was beating a terrified tattoo in his chest. _Not again, not again, not again._

He was halfway across the room when Mixon grabbed him, held him back. Patrick snarled, kicked at him like an animal, throwing his weight against the arms around his middle. Distantly, he could hear himself yelling, screaming at Pete and Andy and himself, asking _why, why, why?_

_I go places sometimes._

Patrick went limp in Matt's arms, sinking to the floor tiredly. Pete's hand was wrapped loosely around his phone, thumb still resting on the worn send button. Patrick's picture was on the screen, smiling and young and happy. It seemed like so long ago.

The paramedics rushed in soon after, gently pushing Patrick to the side as they knelt down next to Pete. One handed Pete's phone to Joe, the other pressed sure fingers to Pete's wrist, tapping out the sluggish beat of Pete's heart. They shone a light into his eyes, and Patrick saw a glimpse of red and green and blue, a spiral of sound echoing inside his skull.

"Where'd you go, Pete?" Patrick whispered as the paramedics laid Pete across the stretcher.

\---

_The parking lot was dark, the street lights dead, the faint sign of stars hiding behind dark clouds. A blue and yellow bag blew past, the whispery sounds of it scraping over the ground almost lost under the far away sounds of cars, a city tumbleweed over the empty pavement,_

_But the lot wasn't empty._

_In the back, almost behind the store, the glare of brake lights glowed red in the darkness. Their light caught the curved dent in the back door of the car, showed a familiar set of bumper stickers pasted on haphazardly. Puffs of smoke curled into the sky from the banged up exhaust pipe, the bend from running over a curb visible even from far away._

_Patrick took a step forward, another. His phone felt heavy in his hand, the line almost dead but for the hiss of radio static still coming from it. He was running, heart in his throat, heartsick. The windows were down, even with the city chill, one dark hand hanging limply from the driver's side. A mess of blue pills lay like a warning on the asphalt._

_"No._ No. _"_

 _He pulled the door open and Pete fell into him, loose and cold and limp, eyes closed, the corners of his mouth white enough to be blue. Patrick shook him, whispered_ wake up, wake up, wake up, _dizzy and too hot as Pete slumped against him, still._

\---

Patrick touched the warm back of Pete's hand, fingers curling around Pete's. Joe was asleep in the chair across from him, chin to his chest and snoring softly. Andy and Matt had headed for the waiting room almost an hour ago, whispering quietly to one another.

The doctors had no answers. The blood tests for drugs had come back low. Pete had taken the right number of his meds, on time. There were no bumps along his head, no signs of trauma or a stroke. He was just. Gone. Somewhere else.

Patrick's phone buzzed in his pocket. He clenched his jaw when Pete's name showed on the screen under the tiny envelope icon. He looked up at Joe, who was still snuffling in his sleep, and back down at Pete's pale face.

_ride w/ me ric_

Under it, the same strange symbol as before.

"Get up." Patrick shoved at Joe, leaned over Pete's still body to reach. Joe snorted, jerking awake, blinking up at him with glazed eyes.

"Did they find something?"

Patrick turned his phone, oddly calm. A line of confusion settled between Joe's thick eyebrows and he patted down his jacket, eyes still on the message. He pulled Pete's Sidekick from his pocket, frowning down at it.

"We have to get him."

"Patrick," Joe started slowly, "he's right here. I know you're worried- we all are man-"

"He's not here, Joe. He." Patrick sat back, glancing at the sharp profile of Pete's face. "Trust me, okay? I know Pete." He didn't say better than anyone else, but the words hung heavy in the air still. "We need to go get him." Joe was silent for a moment, eyes wide and sympathetic. 

"Okay," he said softly. Relief settled into Patrick's chest almost immediately. "I'll go get Andy and Mix."

When Joe left, Patrick pressed a kiss to the dry, hot cheek closes to him, fingers going tight around Pete's. There was no response. 

"I'm coming," he said quietly. "Hang on."

\---

331 Rio Boulevard, according to the cab driver, was an old quarry. He scoffed when Andy gave him the address, but still took their cash when they waved it at him. He let them out at a walkway next to a small forest, pointing them in the right direction before speeding away.

"Patrick, I don't think-"

"Don't, dude." Patrick held his shoulders back and led the way in, determination setting his pace. He caught the worried glance Matt and Andy shared, saw the fear tucked into the line of Joe's jaw. Then he saw Pete, still and small against the too white sheets of the hospital bed, and he picked up the pace.

The music hit first. Bright, cheery, straight out of childhood, the ringing of the calliope was loud in the stillness of the woods. The sweet melody led them past tree after tree, the darkness of the night giving way to a whirlwind of reds and blues and greens.

"A carnival," Andy said stiffly, leaning in close to take it in.

The familiar outlines of Ferris wheel and rollercoaster and swinging boat flowed with strings of lights, calling in herds and herds of kids. The kids- teenagers, mostly, a few young looking twenty-somethings thrown in here and there- skidded recklessly down the sides of the quarry, their laughter bouncing off the walls. It figured that Pete would go to a place like this.

Mixon was the first to start down the slope, whooping and skidding, dust trails following after his sneakers, bare shins turning a darker shade of brown. He toppled head over heels, his laughter joining the echo.

The rest of them followed more sedately, picking their way gingerly though the rocks and tree roots and weeds. Patrick's jeans looked worse for wear, dust climbing up to his thighs and sticking resolutely to him no matter how hard he shook his legs. Andy's feet, bare but for his flip-flops, looked even worse.

"So, do we just go in?" Joe peered through the tall fence at the midway, wrapping his fingers around the iron bars. The carnival looked surprisingly empty, considering the number of kids still scaling down the valley, packed dirt runways filled with game booths and food stands.

"Tickets!"

Patrick jumped, flailing hand connecting with Andy's chest. Andy elbowed him back, silent as they both took in the wooden ticket booth that they _knew_ hadn't been there before. A man stood inside it, his red jacket faded, one hand outstretched.

"We, uh. Don't have tickets," Patrick said. The man tsked.

"No ticket, no entry." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, 

"We need to get in there." Patrick stepped up to the booth, antsy. "Our friend-"

"No ticket? No entry."

Patrick grit his teeth, leaning forward to show the tender exactly what _no ticket_ got them when the man lifted a hand to his ear. Inside it, tucked into the hollow, was a communicator. Its wires slipped seamlessly into the man's cheek, like they belonged there. Patrick took a careful step back.

"My apologies," the tender said gruffly, reaching out a hand. "You're guests." He grabbed Patrick's hand and, before Patrick could jerk away, stamped it with the same symbol that had been in Pete's texts. "That's your ride pass. Six rides before dawn, no more, no less. Dawn comes at six-fifteen today."

"What happens if we don't ride all six?" Joe asked warily as he offered his hand up to be stamped. The tender grimaced and remained silent. After Andy and Matt were stamped, the five of them passed through the gate, the ominous click behind them echoing across the midway. 

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, dude," Joe said lowly, pointing at a tilt-a-whirl.

The arm of the ride swung the riders in their pods faster and faster, their screams rising in pitch. The riders' faces began to blur, like oil paints smudged wrong, the outlines of their raised arms going soft. There was a small burst of light, and then a creak as the ride slowed again.

The pods were empty.

"Skipping the particle accelerator, for real," Matt muttered, watching the kids stepping up to fill in the empty seats. 

Down the midway, a swinging boat ride rocked back and forth, the yelling kids inside staring blankly in front of them, their mouths wide and soundless. The boat swung high through one set of anchors, stirring up a large gust of wind as it swayed back to the other anchor. Patrick shielded his eyes against the flurry of dust and gravel it kicked up, heart thundering in his chest as the boat kept going up and around. 

Two girls fell from their seats, screaming with joy as they plummeted. The boat fell back, completing its circuit. The girls disappeared before they hit the ground.

Patrick felt ill. If the place had given him any suspicions before, they were all confirmed now. Whatever this place was, it wasn't natural. A flash of dark hair reminded him of Pete, of Pete so still and quiet, and he shook himself out of it.

"Six rides," he said. "Where to first?"

\---

Once, Pete had said they were like peanut butter and jelly- awesome on their own, but so much _more_ awesome together. Patrick, who had been halfway to sleep, shoulders sticking to the sheets, had laughed, opening one eye to look at him.

"Seriously," Pete said. "Me and you, we're. You know." He held up crossed fingers, grinning stupid and big behind them. "Peas in a pod, halves of a whole. Whatever, you know?" Patrick, young and stupid and still languid with the last of the afterglow, had felt his heart pound, warm and content. 

"You're an idiot," he had said, but his face hurt from smiling, and Pete just laughed and laughed, forehead against Patrick's bare shoulder, hand over Patrick's heart.

\---

"I have a bad feeling about this," Patrick said, head tilted back to look up at the high rising track of the rollercoaster. The line was nearly nonexistent, just a handful of kids bouncing in front of them between the little rope barriers. Patrick wasn't sure if he should be comforted by that fact or terrified.

"We're looking for Pete," Andy said as he took a step forward, closer to the turnstile. "He's going to go for stupid."

"That. Actually makes sense." Patrick still felt a tight claw of nervousness gripping at him.

"It's the vegan superpowers," Mixon said cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child.

As they stepped closer and closer to the turnstile, the stamp on the back of Patrick's hand began to feel hot. Itchy. He looked down at it, a little startled to see it glowing white instead of the flat red that it had been. Before he could mention it to the others, he was being stuffed into a seat next to Joe.

Patrick had always hated rollercoasters. They were too fast, too much like falling. When he heard the click of the safety bar closing down, the hiss of the motor starting up, he clenched his eyes shut, wrapping his fingers tight around the lap bar. 

It felt like his stomach was going to fall out as the coaster began to pick up speed, whipping around sharp corners, the wind clawing at his face. He felt Joe snatch his hat as it began to fall off, thankful, because there was no way his white-knuckled grip on the safety bar was going to let up. The car jerked as it began up the first hill, the steady clicking of the car going up, up, up setting the pace for his heartbeat.

Then, the lap bar disappeared. 

\---

"You can't just choose to leave the band," Pete had said, softly, like it was breaking his heart. His face looked drawn, pinched and old. The purple half-circles under his eyes were deep, his face still handsome as ever, the charm he breathed settling in at the corners of his mouth like he couldn't control it.

"I can do whatever I want," Patrick replied, one hand on his suitcase, the other reaching into the closet for the first of his jackets. He was trying not to look at Pete, his heart heavy in his chest, tired. He just wanted to sleep for a while, to remember Patrick Stump as himself instead of one half of the Pete and Patrick show.

"Patrick. This. This is what you _want_. This is your _dream._ " Pete stayed on the floor, curled up like a scolded child, arms wrapped around his legs. He looked small, weak. Patrick closed his eyes to block him out, but Pete was burned into his mind, an ever-present voice in his head. "We can't do this without you. _I_ can't do this without you."

"You're such a melodramatic fuck," Patrick hissed out. "You. This isn't about you. Do you--. Can you get that? _I want to be away from you_."

Pete's jaw set, his eyes went blank. It was like Patrick had turned out the lights.

\---

When Patrick opened his eyes, ready to look his early death in the face, he saw the familiar insides of a dingy bar instead. He patted his arms, his sides, heart thudding in his chest. He wasn't dead. He wasn't dead! Possibly crazy, but still alive. Another show, another state. Life was _fine._

Then, Joe set Patrick's cap on Patrick's head, and the flash of his ride ticket brought Patrick crashing back down to reality.

"This is so not a rollercoaster," Joe said slowly, eyes wide as he looked around at the faces of the kids around him. When Patrick nodded, a wave of dizziness crashed down on him, and it was like he had pounded down beers for the past hour, his tongue heavy in his mouth, the room spinning and fuzzy at the edges.

Next to him, Joe laughed. The world was okay. Shaky, but okay. Patrick laughed, too, because there was a bubble of feeling in his chest, and he figured it had to be good if the way everyone around his was acting was any indication.

"I don't think I've seen you around here before," a pretty girl near him said. She was small, pixie-ish, with bobbed hair and a small chest. She smiled charmingly at Patrick, giggling around the straw of her fruity drink. "I’m Erica."

"Patrick." His tongue felt funny, and the hard sounds of his name came out slurred. Erica giggled again. She held out a second drink, hand wavering, smiling until Patrick took the glass from her. It tasted like strawberries, a burst of flavor in wiping out any thoughts he may have had. The wave of dizziness hit him again, stronger.

"More," Erica said. Her face smeared, a blur of colors and big eyes. "You should drink more." So Patrick did. 

Erica was soft and pretty, her hands on Patrick's chest, her mouth the same strong strawberry as the drinks she kept handing to him. There was something nagging at the back of Patrick's head, even as he slid his hand under the hem of Erica's shirt, even as Erica crawled into his lap. Something wrong. Something missing.

A crash sounded across the bar, and Patrick startled hard enough to topple the girl to the floor. She made a surprised sound as she hit the ground, and Patrick made to apologize, but a shock of auburn hair and familiar tattoos and _fire_ caught his attention, and his stomach turned.

_Andy._

Patrick stumbled up, drunk and dazed, clumsy as he tried to make it to the other side of the bar. There were kids passed out on the floor, faces to the dirty tile, arms and legs akimbo. Patrick tripped over a stray shoe, his fall like slow motion, and he came nose to throat with one of the passed out kids. He sat up slowly, blinking to clear his vision, then scrambled back. The kid wasn't passed out- he was dead, eyes open and blank, mouth still open.

Sobriety sank into him as he looked around at the field of dead kids, drunk to death, drugged to death. Another crash echoed closer, and Patrick ran blindly to it. Andy looked wild, eyes too bright, mouth up in a snarl. He smashed a bottle of liquor over the bar, something blue and exotic and pungent, and threw the glass shards at the small audience he had acquired. Behind him, Mixon was still, eyes far off. Inside Andy's wrist, under the stop of colors and ink, was a small, still bleeding puncture wound. 

Patrick could remember soft, whispered words in the back of the van, Pete's mouth pressed to his temple to keep his voice down as Joe and Andy slept. He could remember the cadence of _heroin, sick and dying and violent_. Could remember turning his head to stare at Andy, wondering if any of it could be true. 

"Andy," Patrick shouted, voice low under the crackling of the expanding fire behind them. Those wild, untempered eyes met his, and, somewhere in them, he could see Andy screaming. Andy snarled like an animal, reaching for another bottle. The ride pass on his hand glowed faintly.

 _Another ride_ , Patrick thought. He dodged the thrown bottle, slamming into a kid too high to duck. Joe was near, smile blissed out and eyes glazed over. It was familiar. If the sound of the fire wasn't getting closer, Patrick could have laughed at it.

"Joe," he hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders. Joe blinked up at him, smiling lazily.

"Hey. You should drink this-"

" _Joe_. You have to come with me." Patrick elbowed the fruity drink away, mouth buzzing as he remembered the taste. Joe stared blankly at him. "Grab Mixon and follow me. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, sure," Joe replied, words slow like honey. He didn't seem to notice the growing flames or the dead kids, eyes trained on Mixon like a goal.

The trick was finding the turnstile. Patrick eyed the bar, trying to find any differences. It all looked the same, bottle after bottle of no-name liquor, blank label after blank-

One of the bottles stood apart from the rest, its green label printed with the ride symbol. Patrick waited for Joe to tug on Mixon's rigid arm before diving for Andy. A fist clipped his jaw, striking pain down through his neck. Patrick rolled into it, grabbing for the bottle.

The world seemed to spin, a free fall from heights he hadn't known he'd been standing at. Patrick's stomach roiled, and he felt the strong urge to hurl, bile already rising up in his throat.

He did puke when he hit the ground, a belly flop against hard packed dirt. With the energy he had stored up, he shoved Andy to the side, heaving onto the dry patch of ground left over. He heard the soft thuds of Matt and Joe landing next to him as he let loose the last of whatever it was that he had been drinking.

"That's foul, dude," Mixon said, coughing a little. Patrick mustered the energy to flip him off.

Andy was curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his legs, chin to his chest. The track mark stood out, clear as day against the sick pallor of his skin, red and already bruising. His fingers clenched and unclenched arrhythmically, veins and tendons straining as he worked them too hard.

"Hurley-"

"Don't."

Matt pulled his hand back like he had been burnt, face a mix of unreadable emotions. He wrapped his arms around his stomach but he stayed close, a bodyguard against something he couldn't fight.

Patrick looked down at his watch. Two AM. They'd been riding since midnight. 

Not that one could tell from looking around. The sky was a sharp violet, sickly brown clouds hanging dark and pendulous in the sky. The ground was thick, dry, cracked dirt; what looked like the remains of a bombsite. Puny weeds grew through some of the larger cracks, reaching up pathetically with their yellowed stems. 

"Jesus." Patrick prodded at a boulder, grimacing at the give of the stone. It felt hot and smooth, like skin. If he looked just right, he could see a face, eyes and nose and mouth chiseled in. He knew that face, some- the girl, in the bar. Erica. Patrick felt ill again.

"That's all sorts of fucked up," Joe said beside him. "So. Um. Next ride?"

\---

The first time they actually went on a date, Patrick had felt ridiculous and retarded, sweet seventeen and dolled up in the sweaty clothes that he'd been saving for the last leg of the tour. Joe, laughing like an idiot, sprawled across the cool floor of the van, told him he looked like he was going to hurl. The thought hadn't occurred to him but, now that it was out in the open, Patrick felt his gut rumble uncomfortably. 

"If I had a car, I totally would have picked you up in style." Pete grinned up at him, big and dumb and infectious, eyes crinkling in the corners. Patrick hated the quick thump of his heart in his chest. Traitor.

"I'll try not to hold it against you," he said, hopping down onto the pavement. He didn't fight when Pete grabbed his hand, didn't do anything but grin like an idiot as they walked across the parking lot to the little skate park.

"You and me, Rick," Pete had said, bumping his hip against Patrick's, "we're meant to be together."

And Patrick had believed him.

\---

"You know," Joe said, hand outstretched in front of him like a dowsing rod, "it kind of feels like getting a tattoo." The ride pass glowed a little hotter as he pointed his arm to the right. They trooped on behind him.

"Really? I always thought it was a more of a stabby sort of pain," Mixon mused, kicking at rocks as he passed by them. After seeing Erica's face in the boulder, Patrick was making a careful attempt to keep his hands and feet inside at all times.

Andy was silent, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, shuffling along beside Matt. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before, almost hidden by the flash of his glasses, stress laid over his shoulder like a coat. Patrick didn't know what to say, didn't know the whole story like Pete had. 

A fuzzy shape loomed up ahead. It was white, giant, a smear of red across its middle. Patrick's hand burned as they neared it, a buzzing under his skin that made him jittery. The closer they got, the easier it was to place the shape.

"It's a funhouse." Patrick paused, looking up at it.

The thing was a giant clown head, the face blindingly white against the violet sky. Big, blank eyes stared out at them, the thing's blood red slash of a mouth open wide, the cave inside pitch black. The ride symbol sat at the end of the clown's lolled out tongue, glowing as white as the passes on their hands. 

Joe was the first to step onto the tongue, his shoulders held back and chin lifted. Andy followed after, one of Mixon's hands steady and sure on the small of his back. Patrick took a last long look at the wasteland behind him before going in.

The walls were eerie neon splatters over black, a tableau of a night sky. It was a spinning tunnel, the constellations rotating around them slowly. Below them, a rickety foot bridge groaned with each step, rocking slowly side to side as they marched on, two rope handrails the only thing keeping them from falling off.

The stars faded, folding in on themselves, rapidly exploding. The bridge shook. Patrick grabbed at the sidebars, hands going quickly numb as the bridge quaked under him. Joe shouted, jumping up as the bridge gave way. Mixon grabbed Andy around the waist with one arm, the other hand white-knuckled on the rope. They swung slowly, rocking the side rails until Andy could grab on. 

"I flunked gym class," Patrick said from the rear, a little hysterical. Already, his arms felt the strain of holding him up.

"Hand over hand, dude," Mixon said tensely. "Do you want to get in front of me?"

"Your arms are no match for my fat." Still, Patrick took him up on the offer. He resisted the urge to close his eyes as he shuffled forward, the rope bouncing and burning against his palms.

Matt dangled down by one hand as Patrick got closer, grabbing the rope behind him and swinging under Patrick's arm like a monkey. Patrick's heart skipped a beat, picking up speed when Matt put both hands back on the rails. Patrick's shoulders felt like they were going to pop apart, fingers too numb to feel the bite of the rope. Up ahead, Joe rocked forward, his coughing breaths echoing across the void. 

"There's something ahead," he shouted back. Mixon whooped, even his voice tinged with weakness.

Patrick grit his teeth and forced himself forward, keeping his eyes focused on Andy's back. When Joe swung up, going horizontal for a brief moment, Patrick felt a rush of relief. Andy scrambled up after him in a swift, smooth movement, flopping down onto the ground with an audible sigh. 

Patrick worked himself closer, tired to the bone. The cliff rose above him, level with his chest, impossibly high, treacherous. Holding his breath, Patrick kicked at the cliff, trying to find footholds. His sneaker caught, wedged into the rock far enough to keep him steady. He kicked again and reached for the ledge.

It was free fall all over again, stop motion view of his hands slipping from the cliff, grasping at the dark air. His heart pounded, a rush of blood in his ears. He was going straight down.

A sudden jerk around his chest stopped him, brought his world back to an almost too-fast reality. 

"Shit, hey, I got you, man." Mixon was solid and hot behind him, his arm shaking with the effort of holding Patrick up. Andy and Joe crawled to the edge of the cliff, holding their hands out. "Grab on, dude."

Patrick reached for them, sweat slick on his palms. He found his footholds again. With the help of Matt's hand shoving up against his ass and the yank of Andy's and Joe's, he managed to scrape himself up and collapsed thankfully on the solid ground. A moment later, Matt swung up next to him, flopping down across the three of them. 

"Atkins," Patrick puffed out, thumping one sore hand down onto his stomach. "If we get through this shit, I'm going on Atkins." Joe snorted beside him, curling into his side like a puppy. 

"Whatever, dude," he said, butting his forehead against Patrick's shoulder. "Pete'll force feed you muffins of something."

_Pete._

Patrick sat up slowly, arms aching. They had to find Pete and go home. Mixon caught his eye and grinned, flashing a quick thumbs up before yanking Andy to his feet. Patrick smiled weakly back at him.

"Onward and outward, dudes. Yo, Stump, maybe you should head the pack?" Matt, with his stupid face and stupid big heart, was probably the only person able to get away with the implication. Well, Patrick sort of owed him his life, so he could let it slide.

"Just remember who's alpha dog next time you leave your dirty fucking socks in the sink, motherfucker." Patrick elbowed his way past them, taking a deep breath before starting down the narrow trail. 

The blackness of the tunnel soon turned to a grey-lit cavern, the ground beneath them a rocky limestone. Patrick was watching the ground beneath them carefully, checking for traps and trying to keep an eye out for the exit. Something was familiar about the cave, something he felt like he should recognize.

\---

"My mom thinks you're a good influence on my moral character," Pete had said, laughing against the back of Patrick's neck. His voice was a little breathless, his palm damp as it slid up the front of Patrick's shirt. Patrick squirmed away from it, heat rising up through his chest.

"Can you, like, not talk about your mom right now?" He asked, choking on his breath as Pete pressed closer to him. Pete laughed again, fingertips ghosting over the soft roundness of Patrick's belly. It tickled, and Patrick hated Pete touching him there, but Pete's lips on his jaw were firm and a little chapped, and his heartbeat was as quick as Patrick's own, pounding through thin layers of t-shirts and skin.

"I'll do my best," he said, tucking his fingers into the waistband of Patrick's jeans. Patrick leaned into him, safe and loved and skittish, grinning into Pete's jaw because this? This was _Pete_ , and Pete was his and nothing was going to change it. "Hey, Rick," Pete whispered, hands wrapping sure and strong over Patrick's hips, "I think I love you."

\---

"Oh my serious god," Andy said as they broke into a wide room in the cavern, sudden light glaring into their eyes. "That's-"

"Dude, where's the guy with the whip?" Joe peered over Patrick's shoulder, chin resting on the soft denim of his jacket.

Vines grew thick and heavy out of the walls, the room nearly empty, save for a platform at the other end of the room. The stones under their feet were broken, like they'd been carried from far away, layered on top of one another haphazardly. A small, golden statue sat at the top of the platform, gleaming under a ray of sunlight. He knew exactly where he'd seen this cave.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"Broken record, Stump," Mixon said, but his easy grin was tight around the edges. "Oh, hey, is that the pressure switch thing?"

Like it had been cued, the platform began to slowly sink, the statuette toppling to the ground with a hollow clang. Giant clouds of dust and rubble puffed up around it as the ground began to shake. Big, thundery echoes bounced off the walls.

"This is the part with the big boulders, isn't it?" Patrick asked, voice high. A great thud sounded in the distance. "Should we start running now?"

"Sounds like a plan," Andy said, close by. Mixon let loose a shout, a war cry, and the creaking of something heavy heading towards them was all the motivation they needed to bolt down the path left where the platform had been, sneakers and flip-flops slapping loudly against the floor.

Patrick had never been fond of sports-like activities. It wasn't so much that he was lazy, but more that he had been known to sweat while standing still, and his short little legs had no business on any sort court or field. So, when the guys played football or soccer or whatever mix of the two they made up that day, he usually rooted himself on the sidelines and played referee and scorekeeper. He was maybe regretting this as he raced after the others, lungs already burning.

The path took a sharp turn, and the others disappeared around it, too far ahead for Patrick to keep track of. He risked a glimpse backwards, eyes going wide as he saw the cavern shaking apart, rocks and debris falling like snow to the splintering ground. The vague shape of a giant, rolling boulder loomed at the entryway. Patrick sped up.

When he rounded the bend, there was no sign of his friends. A sharp pain shot up his side, the burn in his lungs almost unbearable. Something red glowed in the distance-

_-the light caught the curved dent in the back door of the car, showed a familiar set of bumper stickers pasted on haphazardly. Puffs of smoke curled into the sky from the banged up exhaust pipe, the bend from running over a curb visible even from far away._

_Patrick took a step forward, another. He knew this place, knew what was hiding behind the building, what he would find. His phone felt heavy in his hand, the line buzzing with the static playing on the radio. He was running, couldn't stop himself from moving, his heart in his throat, heartsick. The car windows were down, even with the city chill, one dark hand hanging limply from the driver's side, A mess of blue pills lay like a warning on the asphalt-_

The cavern was gone. 

Patrick collapsed onto the tile of the diner floor, curling around the crap in his side, taking deep, stuttery breaths, ignoring the stares of the kids around him. The smell of burgers on the grill and the soft sound of music pumping through bad speakers were somewhat comforting, familiar in an unfamiliar world. 

"Want some orange juice?" A voice asked from above.

A young boy stood over him, all wide eyes and big mouth, dressed up as a newsboy, suspenders and cap too new to be authentic. He grinned, mouth still full of vicious little baby teeth, as Patrick slowly sat up.

"I'm Brendon, and this is my carnival," the boy said cheerily. "Are you having fun?

"You're a sick little dude," Patrick muttered back as he pushed himself up, cautiously taking the orange juice that was handed to him. "Is this drugged, too?" Brendon shook his head.

"Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die." He hopped up onto the nearest table, swinging his legs, smiling like he'd told a joke.

"Who are you?" Patrick sat next to him, looking around the diner. 

It looked like something out of the fifties, all baby blues and Barbie pinks with a checkered tile floor glossy enough to show the reflection of the booths. A massive and clunky jukebox sat in one corner, its neon sign bars unnatural under the tungsten lights. The menu board was blank, smears of erased chalk twisted into shapes that could have been faces. The place was nearly empty, a handful of kids chattering in booths, eating greasy food. Behind the counter, a middle-aged man flipped burger after burger, his miserable face turned down. 

"Brendon, silly. Pay attention." Brendon laughed again, his little voice dark. "Do you like it here?"

"You lure kids in and they _die_ ," Patrick said tersely.

"They don't _die_ ," Brendon replied defensively. "The park eats them up."

"That's. Not really soothing." Patrick dipped his fingertips into his juice, dragging the pads of his fingers over the glass to make it whine. "What is this place? Why do you do this?"

"The park is like a playground. You make the rules, I make the ride," Brendon said brightly. "There's always a way out, see? You just have to find it." He tapped the table, and the plastic top rippled, dissolving into a fuzzy picture. Patrick squinted down at it, jaw clenching as he saw Joe. "The funhouse was his ride. He's afraid of being left behind. Did you know that?" Joe was screaming, pounding his fists on the stone walls, lost at a fork in the path. "He thinks you'll all just up and poof." Brendon giggled and waggled his little fingers. "He's really nothing without the rest of you, is he?"

"That's not true." Patrick grit his teeth and ignored the guilt settling heavy in his chest. He made a note to himself to never ignore Joe again. Brendon giggled.

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't," he sing-songed. "But that's what he thinks. And, here, it's all about what's inside your head." His little legs crossed under him, and he propped his chin onto his hands, looking at Patrick curiously. "You don't want to ride my rides."

"I have no idea why," Patrick snapped. Brendon smirked. 

"I like that," he said. "I like you. That's why I brought you here special."

" _You_ didn't bring me here. Pete did." Patrick tried to ignore the voice telling him again that it was his fault, that Pete wouldn't have gotten himself into all of this if he had just been there. Brendon stared at him openly. 

"My park, my rules. I invited him here." Brendon tapped his fingers on his round jaw, the sound like a hollowed drum. "You just can't stop yourself from following him, can you?" A slow smile curled at the edges of his mouth. If it weren't so true, Patrick would have hit him, kid or no. Brendon frowned. "I really shouldn't keep you here. You still have four rides to go, right?"

"What happens if I don't get through all the rides?" Patrick asked warily. Brendon snapped his small fingers, and the cook scurried to his side.

"Yes, Mr. Urie?"

"James, how long have you been here?" Brendon asked. James looked up nervously, shifting from foot to foot. He was terrified. "It's okay. Tell him."

"Well. I think it's been nearly forty years, now." James scratched the stubble of his jaw with his red, chapped hands. "I think I was seventeen when I got caught." Patrick sucked in a slow breath. Die on a ride, become part of the scenery. Get caught in the park after sunup and become a slave. 

"That's all, James." Brendon waited until the man had hurried back to the grill to lean forward, his big eyes focused on Patrick's face. Something flashed in them, surprise maybe, and he smiled again, softer. "Have fun," he said, tossing a small ball up into the air. When Patrick caught it, the world went dizzy.

\---

A chicken pecked angrily at his shoe.

Patrick kicked it away, nose wrinkling at the foul stench around him. He’d lived with multiple sweaty dudes in a van for years, but the sheer stench of unwashed people surrounding him made him gag. The chicken clucked angrily and, in a horrible sort of retaliation, took a shit on his shoe.

There were huts built close together along the uneven roads, their roofs made mostly of thatched straw. Hay, piles and piles of hay, covered cobblestone streets just as dirty as everything else. A shout came from behind him, and Patrick had barely enough time to dodge as a large, whuffling horse tramped by. The man seated on its strong back wore a suit of armor.

Two women, peasants by the look of their clothes, hurried by, their heads ducked together. Up close their foul odor was stifling, and Patrick had to raise a hand to his face to block it out. He was still holding the ball. As he looked down at it, the bright blue plastic twisted and shifted until it was a smooth, grey pebble the size of a silver dollar. Something that vaguely looked like the word resentment was etched across one of the flat sides. 

"Hurry, Liza, or we'll miss the stoning," one woman said to the other, voice heavy with a thick accent Patrick didn't recognize.

Dunk tank.

The stone in his hand felt heavy, but he couldn't bring himself to let it go of it. He followed along behind the women, hopping over chickens and mud and not-mud puddles, already mourning the loss of his favorite sneakers. They had been good to him, and here he was defiling the poor things. Not the worst thing he'd done, he supposed guiltily.

There were dozens of people- slaves, Patrick thought- dressed in medieval garb, their faces aged unkindly, marred with pockmarks, sickness drawn tight around their hunched and twisted bodies. Among them, though, were kids like Patrick, riders, their sneakers and jackets vibrant against the grey gloom of the streets and huts. They were gathering around something, hordes of them, snarling and vicious and blurring at the edges. 

As he got closer, Patrick could see a rough platform raised at the center of the crowd. It was made of rough, splintery wood, held together with large, rusting nails. Four side posts held the thing up, a rickety set of steps leading from the ground. It shook a little in the breeze, creaking and groaning with the strain. The kids around it were anxious, stones of every shape and size in their hands.

Then, Brendon was there, his small hands pulling him onto the platform, tiny legs kicking to give him the extra boost. He smiled widely at Patrick, all teeth and too-big lips, and clapped his hands. The newsboy attire around him warped, cloth dropping away in folds and turns, a plume of smoke hiding the boy behind it. When it cleared away, a narrow young man stood there, slim and straight-backed, dressed in a top hat and ringmaster's jacket, long fingered hands hidden in white gloves.

Brendon- those bright eyes could belong to no one else- bowed to the applause the crowd gave him, watching Patrick with a small smirk. When he straightened again, putting a single finger to his lips, the crowd fell silent, most of them leaning forward in anticipation of whatever he would say. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, riders of all ages, I have for you the execution of one man." Brendon paused, pacing the small platform, letting the crowd at his feet cheer. "A vile and vicious man, a liar and a sinner. He's led your children astray, painted false truths into your pretty young heads." He held a hand out to Patrick, the shine off his satin gloves too bright. Too many faces turned towards him, empty eyes and bared teeth setting Patrick on edge. When he made no move to join Brendon at the platform, the man raised his arched eyebrows and straightened again. "For his crimes against you and yours, for his depraved acts of treachery, I give you to him as penance. " Brendon hopped down from the platform. The sea of people parted for him as he made his way to the back, watching him go helplessly. He turned with a great flourish, opening his arms wide. "So make him pay."

Behind Brendon a gate was thrown open, slamming against a stone wall. A man- an executioner- held a body in front of him, half shoving, half pulling it to the platform. The prisoner was hooded, a rough burlap sack tied around his neck. He stumbled along beside the executioner, sneakers dragging in the hay. Patrick knew those sneakers, knew that hoodie, knew the hands reaching up to tug at the ties of the sack.

The crowd booed and hissed as Pete was dragged up onto the platform. The executioner tied his arms to the side posts on either side, the scrape of the rope tightening too far loud even through the shouts of the onlookers. He raised his hands in the air, much like Brendon had, letting the jeers of the mob escalate before snatching the sack off.

Pete looked dazed, his eyes distant. His lip was split, cracked down the middle, a purple-blue bruise blossoming over his cheek. The dark strands of his hair stuck up, messy spikes that could have been natural if not for unattractive clumps that might be blood. He winced as the crowd booed at him, head hanging down low to his chest.

The first stone hit him in the stomach. Pete doubled down as far as the ropes let him, mouth opening wide to gasp in air. The next stone crashed against his jaw. Then, a flood, rock after pebble after stone flying at him.

Patrick ran forward, shoving through the crowd to get closer. A rock caught him between the shoulder blades, stinging even through the thick denim of his jacket. He grit his teeth, slamming his shoulder into a stubborn kid to get through. A sharp gasp from the platform made him look up.

Pete's face was bleeding, sluggish flows stemming from his nose and the corners of his mouth, one eye already swelling shut. He spat, red and vicious, and Brendon was suddenly at Patrick's side, hands alternately hot and cold on Patrick's arms. He curled Patrick's fingers tighter around the stone he still held, smiling broadly.

"Make him pay."

Anger swelled inside Patrick's chest as Brendon backed away. The kids fell away, their screams pitching into white noise. He hated Pete.

He hated Pete. 

He hated Pete for bringing them here, for putting all of them in jeopardy. He hated Pete for dragging him out of his normal life and shoving him into the mess that he was in now. He hated Pete for loving him, hated him for every kiss and every touch they'd ever shared. He hated Pete for trying to leave them, for trying to leave him, behind. He hated Pete because, even now, he loved him so much it hurt. 

The rock in his hand burned, too heavy to hold. Patrick reared back, the weight dissolving as he hefted it up over his shoulder. He sneered, glaring up at Pete. He'd make him pay for all of it. Dark eyes met his, so sad and resigned, waiting for it. Patrick's heart clenched. This was no monster, no liar or sinner. This was Pete, open and honest and filled with more sadness than anyone else in the world. The rock fell from Patrick’s hand to the ground soundlessly.

He shoved through the crowd, hands shaking as he pushed past kids with warped, twisting faces, eyes stuck on Pete. He climbed up onto the platform, sneakers scraping against the rough wood, splinters spearing in past his skin. He shielded Pete with his own body, reaching for the ties around his wrists. Stones pounded sharp and heavy against his back.

"You're here," Pete said, voice distorted around his swollen mouth.

"Of course I'm here," Patrick said, hissing when a small stone caught the back of his neck. Pete stared up at him, the corners of his mouth into a grimace that looked like a smile. Trying to keep himself between the worst of the crowd and Pete, Patrick fought with the ropes, tensed to run if Brendon or anyone else tried to stop him. When he was free, Pete fell to his knees. "Come on, Pete. You have to get up." Patrick wrapped his arms around Pete's middle, tugging. He felt a flash of familiarity, heat gathering low in his belly as he remembered nights spent curled around Pete on unfamiliar beds. 

"I'm sorry," Pete mumbled into Patrick's neck, hands weak as they gripped at Patrick's jacket. 

"I know." Patrick closed his eyes. He was so tired.

"I still love you."

"I know." Patrick tugged, stumbling off the platform gracelessly, dragging Pete along with him. The crowd closed in, stepping over one another, howls of pain joining in with the yells for blood, hitting at Patrick's back and shoulders, aiming for Pete. "We're going to make it."

"You and me Rick-"

"We're golden." Patrick's legs felt weak, a stray kick catching him in the thighs, making his knees buckle. "Come on. We have to get to the next ride."

"They're going to kill us," Pete coughed out. "They hate me."

"You're the only one that hates you." Patrick's hand felt hot. When he looked down at it, his ride pass pulsed faintly. "We're almost there. Come on."

A waterwheel rotated slowly next to a barn, dark, muddy water sloshing off the planks. On its spinning center, the ride symbol glowed. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. So close, they were so close. As the neared the wheel, Pete managed to work his own legs again, stumbling along side Patrick clumsily. 

"You still love me?" Pete asked, bleeding face pressed to Patrick's shoulder. I hate you, Patrick thought bitterly, and it was at least a little true, somewhere deep inside and buried under everything else, but-

"I never stopped, asshole." Patrick winced at the sound of his own voice, trying to speed up. They just had to get a little closer. "Now isn't a good time for this-"

"I ride this one alone," Pete said sadly, slipping free of Patrick's grasp. He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Patrick's mouth, bitter and metallic, painful for both of them. "Find me on the way out." He placed a flat hand on Patrick's chest and shoved. Patrick was falling into the next ride, momentum thrown off, arms pinwheeling as he tried to gain balance. As the smells and dark, twisted faces of the mob faded, Patrick caught the small, pained smile at the edge of Pete's mouth. 

\---

The city glowed in the moonlight, the familiar skyline welcome after so long away. The wind was cool, the edge of winter riding along with it, but Patrick was bundled up in too many shirts and a jacket that might have belonged to Joe once. He felt home and safe and right, sitting up high on the roof of his house.

"I miss the road," Pete said beside him, curled in on himself like the breeze was too much. Looking at the thin lines of his wrists and legs, Patrick figured it maybe was. Pete looked up suddenly, like he'd been bitten. Patrick worried for a moment about him toppling off onto the ground. "Hey, no more bus."

Patrick laughed because Pete, seriously, and let himself be led back inside. The house was still mostly empty, boxes he'd been to busy to unpack scattered haphazardly around the front room, his instruments lined up carefully against one wall. The couch still had plastic on it from the moving company. But it was his, the first major purchase made as an adult, and he loved it.

As Pete tackled him to the floor, all goofy grins and hot hands and sweet mouth, Patrick figured part of it was Pete's too. 

\---

Everything was white. 

Patrick pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, the uncomfortable shift of his dry contacts against them making him grimace. When he pulled his hands away, the white walls were still overpowering, but manageable, letting him take in his surroundings.

It was like an endless box, the walls going on forever in each direction. The floor was something soft that bounced under Patrick's shoes as he walked, pressure that lifted him up and made him go faster than he meant to. The air smelled chemical and clean, too sterile, like a hospital or a morgue. A brief flash of Pete lying perfectly still on too white hospital sheets made Patrick fear whatever was going to come. 

The silence was deafening, no hums or whirs of machinery, no ticking of clocks or faint noises of life. It left a sharp ringing in Patrick's ears, as if he'd been punched in the side of the head. A part of him wanted to speak, to sing, to break the too heavy silence that was cloistered around him, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, afraid of what may or may not come out of his mouth. 

There were no people, no actors or riders, no sign of anyone. Just him, the walls, and the ringing.

Patrick held his arm out, staring at the bright red of his ride pass. It had worked before; he hoped it would work again. The pass stayed stubbornly red, though, even as Patrick jogged awkwardly down the narrow corridor, eyes trailing over the blank walls for signs of exit.

He was anxious, unsettled. He wanted to know where Andy and Joe and Matt were, wanted to know if Pete had managed to hop onto another ride, wanted to know where Brendon had gone. Wanted people and sounds and voices. 

You're alone. 

Patrick paused, wavering as the strange ground bounced. He looked around, but everything was the same, no hints of change present. 

You're alone and you'll always be alone. 

A flicker of Pete sleeping soundly in Patrick's- in their- bed hit him, hard enough to make him lean forward, a little breathless. It was replaced with a flash of a grin, dark fingers on a pale thigh, a memory of touch. Patrick gasped, doubled over. In his mind, Pete laughed, the vibrations rocking through Patrick's skin. 

The floor bounced lightly as Patrick fell to his knees, breathless. He pressed his hands to the sides of his head, trying to block out the nothingness, the stop-motion movie of Pete, Pete, Pete playing behind his eyelids.

\---

Patrick had been terrified. There had been no call, no show, no warning. Pete was missing, and the house felt empty without him; too big, foreign. Patrick felt like a ghost, haunting the corners of their bedroom in the thin spillover of the streetlights. 

When the front door opened, he fought the urge to run to it, planting his feet firmly on the carpet. He could hear Pete in the living room, the thumps of his footsteps, the crash as he bumped into the coffee table again. Familiar home sounds.

Pete looked tired in the doorway, eyes dark, hunched in on himself. He smelled like smoke and beer, but the pants he wore were the ones with the zipper that stuck, and when he curled into Patrick's arms, the faint smell of after-sex sweat was missing. 

Patrick clenched his jaw, holding Pete like a child. He'd find out later about the negative reviews, the shouting kids, the fighting in dark alleys. Then, though, he had just bit back his anger and questions and let Pete cling to him. 

\--

Patrick scrambled to his feet, the floor wobbling, and ran. The pass on his hand stayed cool, but he was not afraid. There's always a way out, he thought to himself. Brendon said there's always a way out, I just have to find it. 

He stumbled, sneaker caught in a crack in the folds of the floor. He dropped down to it feeling triumphant looking down at the small spill of light that came from it. With a small smile, he reached for it, nails scratching against the slick material, fingertips shoving the crack open wider.

"That's not an exit." Brendon, still all grown up, stomped down on the little flap, his yellow sneaker pristinely clean. Patrick looked up at him, and the room lost its power. He was no longer alone. 

"It's my exit," Patrick said, chin tilted up defiantly. He would not be another lost soul. Brendon's hair lay flat against his head, the pale of his skin more yellow than white. Small smudges of purple sat under his eyes, like he'd been awake for too long.

"You're too pretty for The Works," Brendon said brightly, his smile dimmer than it had been before. "That's a nasty place. A place meant for, say, people like your Pete?" Brendon laughed meanly when Patrick threw a poorly aimed punch, stepping lightly away. Through the crack below him, Patrick could see the turn of a gear.

"Where is he?" Patrick wobbled to his feet, taking a step in Brendon's direction. Brendon laughed again.

"Riding." He paused, tapping a finger on his lower lip. "He's a survivor, you know." Something wistful passed over his face, a fleeting flash of sadness before the over-bright smile returned. "He shouldn't be here at all." Patrick curled his fingers into a tight fist, anger bubbling under his skin. "The strong ones usually end up in The Works." Patrick was silent, but Brendon laughed again. "Would you like to know what it is?" 

Brendon was at his side suddenly, hot and cold all at once, two extremes without a middle ground, mouth close to Patrick's temple. This close, Patrick could see the fine lines cracking at the corners of Brendon's eyes. Brendon wrapped an arm around Patrick's waist, the other waving a small arc in front of them, ever the showman. A swimming image of the carnival as Patrick had first seen it appeared in front of them, floating in the thin air, filled with cheering, screaming kids.

"The saddest ones come here," he said, breath hot against Patrick's jaw. "People who hate their lives. People who get off on putting themselves in danger. The carnival, it feeds off them." The arm around Patrick's waist tightened, the hand at his hip hot enough to freeze. Patrick kept his mouth shut and refused to budge. He wouldn't give Brendon the satisfaction.

In the watery carnival, faces slowly faded away, new voices joining in with old ones, rides going on and on and on. In the back, a familiar hoodie darted between two sullen faced children, bright under all the gloom. Patrick watched Pete stroll past the dunk tank a flutter of relief passing through him and head toward a garish sign that read House of Mirrors. 

"Your world doesn't exist without mine," Brendon said, lips brushing over the soft skin behind Patrick's ear. 

"What are you?" Patrick asked, eyes trained on the small figure of Pete. The carnival turned dark, lights flipping off one by one.

"If the carnival were flesh and blood, I would be its heart. Its soul." Brendon's fingers tightened on Patrick's hip, burning into his skin. "I've seen every disaster your world has caused. I am every disaster." He laughed soundlessly, fitting his chest to Patrick's back. "It's boring here, sometimes. It's all steal the children this and destroy souls that. There's nothing to play with." He tucked two loose fingers into Patrick's belt, tugging him back. "You could always stay. Play with me."

"If I get caught, I have to," Patrick said, more to himself than to Brendon. Then, it clicked. He shoved himself off, nearly falling over on the unstable ground in his haste. When he turned, Brendon looked small. "No one's gotten this far."

"Got it in one." Brendon tucked his hands into his pockets, smiling weakly. "Most kids, they get stuck on their second ride. Either they love it and don't want to leave, or they fall into The Works. You, though. You never wanted to ride." 

"No one's ever made it out," Patrick breathed. Part of him was terrified at the prospect- it was nearly impossible, no one had done it, so how could he- but the rest of him felt triumphant. Strong. He would get out, would bring Pete and Andy and Joe and Mixon with him. Brendon's mouth was turned down at the edges, wilted and unnatural. "What happens to you if they do?" Brendon spread his empty hands in front of him, shrugging.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "But it's exciting, isn't it?" He leaned forward and pressed a quick, dry kiss to Patrick's mouth, lips cool enough to send a chill down Patrick's spine. "Maybe you're my ride."

Before Patrick could reach for him, he was gone, taking the white room with him, leaving Patrick with his eyes closed on un-solid ground, waiting for whatever would come next. 

\---

The words, blindingly obvious as always, were about him. Patrick traced the shaky lines of Pete's familiar handwriting, scraps of receipts and napkins and notebook paper spiraling out around him like an angry universe. Patrick sifted through them carefully, setting apart the things he'd never sing from the things that would hurt him the least. 

A line about falling stars and empty bedrooms went into the never pile. A verse about soft skin and dark windows and broken hearts joined it. The words about Hallelujah, about parked cars and little blue pills and never taking no as an answer again went into the maybe pile. They'd kill him on stage, but they'd stab at Pete, too, and it was really only fair.

He could feel Pete watching him, tired, bruised eyes taking in each move, his still-labored breaths loud in the small space of Patrick's new apartment. It was the first time they had been together since Pete went to Best Buy, and Patrick couldn't bring himself to look up at him.

He kept the words, though. Every last one of them.

\---

He was in a venue, something larger than they had ever actually played in. The houselights were out, the rows and rows and rows of empty seats left in the dark. Dim light strips illuminated the aisle, tiny pricks of sick yellow light leading up and away. Below him, the dingy red carpet was moth-eaten, dusty and worn down.

Ahead, the stage was lit brilliantly by spotlights, the hardwood floor shining smoothly, big, floating dust particles dancing in the beams. It was empty, no drum riser or amp towers or microphone stands. A molded red curtain hung limply on both sides, tied back with giant yellow ribbons. Backstage fell into bleak darkness. 

Patrick's footsteps seemed loud in the silence- natural, normal silence- as he walked, ricocheting off the empty walls. If he listened closely, he could hear the swell of voices cheering, yelling Pete's words at the tops of their lungs. A swell of adrenaline welled up in him, something like muscle memory. He long for his guitar, for Pete and Andy and Joe beside him, for familiar ground and familiar faces and familiar sounds. 

As he reached the stage, Patrick thought of Chicago, of the old van and the old bus and the bus he shared with Andy. He thought of the scores of music laying dormant on his computer, the endless number of words hidden at the bottom of his duffel bag.

Behind the stage, a hall led away, narrow and dimly lit. Patrick hauled himself up, kicking to get onto the slick, smooth wood of the stage. A thick layer of dust turned the oak gray, sinking into the cracks and knotholes. The spotlight felt hot through his jacket, the prickle of sweat already starting up at the back of his neck.

Faint music drifted in through the hall, a melody he couldn't recognize. Patrick followed it, humming softly to calm his nerves. He was on his fifth ride. He could get through this. He would get through it. Then, he'd hug Andy and Joe and Mixon, and call his mom, and maybe strangle Pete. Maybe kiss Pete and apologize and try to start again.

The hall was claustrophobic, narrow enough that his shoulders brushed against each side, collecting plaster on his jacket, the light going softer the further away from the stage he wandered. Slowly, the hardwood floor broke away to a muddy dirt path, squelching unpleasantly with every step Patrick took.

The music was still faint, but Patrick could pick out familiar things if he strained hard enough. Below him, something snapped, the sound like gunfire in the small space. Patrick jumped, hands raised in a half attempt at fist. When no one came running, he knelt down to see what he'd broken.

Sticking out at a steep angle, uncomfortably white against the sucking brown mud, was a bone. Patrick touched the splintered ends in the middle with light fingers. It looked human, long and sturdy and nothing at all like what the drawings in anatomy books showed. It might have been a leg bone or an arm bone. Near it, another bone lay discarded. Patrick squelched over to it.

Patrick had never studied human anatomy- he'd never had a reason to, really- but the unnatural curl of the bone was nothing he could place, even if he had spent days and days tucked away with medical journals. It was thick with wide pores, bent nearly ninety degrees at one end, the rounded off smoothness of the other end suggesting a joint. Shoulder, maybe. Patrick took a slow breath as he raised himself back up, forcing himself to look away from it as he continued down the hall.

The walls spread out gradually, opening to a room of doors. The doors were identical, each painted a sloppy gray, their handles made of tarnished brass. No signs hung above them, no pictures or warnings. Patrick raised his arm, pointing his ride pass at each of them. It stayed cool and red, flaking off at the edges. His watch read four twenty-three AM.

A wail, sorrowful and low, broke through, overpowering the music and the uneven puffs of Patrick's breath. Another joined it, and then another. They bounced around the large room, a call for more voices. Patrick closed his eyes and blindly picked a door.

When he opened his eyes again, he jerked back, startled to see someone else. With fleeting embarrassment, he blinked at his own reflection, sighing softly. No sudden, impending doom. Just a hall of mirrors.

He looked wrecked, which made so much sense it was ridiculous. His jeans were filthy to the knees; the dust from the valley had been replaced with mud and filth that he was trying very hard not to think about. The knees and elbows of his pants and jacket were frayed, bare, red skin peeking out. A smear of blood dried almost black ran from his temple to his cheek, and Patrick tried to remember if he'd hit his head, or if it was Pete's blood still clinging to him.

The scraggly strands of his hair stuck out haphazardly from under his hat, the ends curling wetly against his neck, his sideburns plastered down against his jaw, a few stray hairs standing on end. His eyes looked bloodshot, small raw, red circles starting in around his irises from his dry contacts. A bead of sweat slipped down from the ruddy end of his nose, dripping dark and wet onto the collar of his shirt.

Patrick averted his eyes, trying to take in the hall. It went on to the left and right, dark but for the faint glow of the endless mirrors. The door he'd come in from was gone, replaced with another shiny mirror, leaving him stuck. The wailing seemed louder, here.

It was eerie, watching reflections of himself walking, the flash of his jacket dancing all the way up the hall. More bones, some arranged into full skeletons, crunched underfoot, even though Patrick was trying to keep from destroying them. The kids were still watching, somewhere faceless in the ride. He tried not to think about the few Greek mythologies he could remember, barely keeping himself from looking for Minotaur skulls.

There were no bends that became apparent, no turns in the maze to throw him off. Patrick kept his eyes forward, an uncomfortable unease sitting heavy in his chest. Was this Brendon's big trick? Throw him in with nothing to look at but himself? It had its merits, but even he could stomach that if he had to. 

A soft, scuffling sound made him turn. An ugly, misshapen creature stared up at him with large, unblinking eyes. Its head was warped, the top pointing off unnaturally and the jaw wide and rectangular. One of the thing's arms dragged the ground, its body listing off to the side, swollen knuckles filthy. Its dark skin was wrinkled, mottled and blotchy with what looked like deep burns. When it stepped forward it limped, its legs bent backwards at the knees, shoving its round belly in front of it like a cane. It opened its mouth- big and gaping and full of too many too-big teeth- and wailed.

Patrick turned tail and ran, feet sticking in the mud, stumbling over himself. Bones crunched under his shoes, snapping twice over as the creature lumbered after him. Patrick wanted to be home and away and unafraid. He stumbled to a halt at the end of the hall, feet sliding in the muck, narrowly avoiding a nasty crash into a mirror.

In the mirror, his face was beet red, sweat at his temples and under the brim of his hat. It distorted his figure, expanding his belly out further, giving his face even more roundness. His hands looked thick and plump, fingers too thick to move. 

Ugly, a voice whispered in his head. You are ugly and fat and weak, and no one wants you because of it. No one wants you when they can have Andy or Pete or Joe. 

Patrick tore his eyes away from the mirror, clenching his jaw. Lies, he thought, a weak attempt at convincing himself. A flash of adoring brown eyes, of slick mouth and warm breath, gave him the strength to stand and face down his reflection.

The creature had caught up to him, its heavy breathing fogging a few of the mirrors. It stopped before it reached Patrick, though, big, wet eyes staring up at him sadly. They were familiar, and Patrick felt equal parts relief and terror.

"Paatrrik," the thing croaked, voice as twisted and unnatural as everything else. 

Repulsed, Patrick stepped forward, looking closer. Under everything- the grotesque bend of bone and skin, the twisted blur of features- he could see Pete, through and through. Biting back bile, he reached for a gnarled hand. Pete's wrinkled eyes closed.

"What happened to you?" He asked quietly, trying to ignore the sick, wrong feel of Pete's skin. It was hard to keep himself still when Pete wrapped around him, familiar in everything but shape, bones digging sharply against Patrick's ribs and thighs, wet, mangled mouth pressed in an open kiss to Patrick's throat.

"I fell through," Pete said, vowels curling in on themselves. "And I kept falling." Like he couldn't help it, Patrick freed an arm from Pete's tight grip and lifted his hand to the closest mirror.

It looked solid enough, the warped reflection making his fingers look long and spidery, palm too long on his extended wrist. Do or die, now or never, he thought, and jammed his hand forward palm first, expecting glass shards to go flying. Instead, his hand slipped through up past his watch with nothing more than the feel of breaking the surface of a still pond. 

Behind the glass, his fingers looked knotted and broken, knuckles bending unnaturally. He jerked his arm back quickly, thumping his forearm against Pete's side. His hand had returned to normal, chubby little fingers and all. He shook his head, barking out a sharp laugh. So that was Brendon's game.

"Pete, hey." Patrick tried to keep his gaze focused on Pete's eyes- still the same, the only thing the same- as he pulled away. "I'm on ride five. Just one more and we're home free. You just. Don't let go this time."

Pete stared up at him, blinking. Slowly, he held his hand out, and Patrick took it, squeezing tight. It felt wrong, but this was Pete, and there was no way he was going to let go. Not this time. Not again.

He turned toward the nearest mirror, looking at the small, wide figure reflected back at him, at the monster next to it. A voice in his head whispered, you're talentless, worthless. Nothing to keep around. Patrick closed his eyes against it and took a step forward.

They passed through the mirror easily, and Patrick felt his bones begin to twist, to turn in on themselves. He kept forward, making it a point to not look at himself. The next mirror gave him a limp, expanded one leg too far and shortened the other, his heartbeat pumping to the sound of weak, weak, weak. 

It seemed never-ending, mirror after mirror, hall after hall. Patrick kept the course and refused to let the worry that he was wrong, that he was just making it worse, sink in. His reflection in each passing mirror was worse, and Pete. Pete couldn't have gotten worse if he tried.

He felt small, weak and worthless, doubt spiraling up with each lopsided step. He was a failure and a coward and deserved everything that came to him. Walking was painful, his hips cracking every time he moved, feet turned in nearly ninety degrees. One ear touched his shoulder, head too heavy for his pencil thin neck to support. Thick, white spills of fat rolled over the waistband of his jeans, rubbed raw on the underside by the denim. 

When he felt he could go no further, Pete tightened his hand around Patrick's pulling, leading the way. 

\---

"You're gonna be a rockstar," Pete had said, hands on his hips, ugly yellow shirt riding up over his smooth, flat stomach. Patrick, young and chubby-cheeked and maybe balding a little, stared up at him, mouth open in mixed disbelief and suspicion. Very carefully, he shut his laptop, cutting off the track, and curled his arms around his knees. 

"You know," he said slowly, eyes narrowed against the sunlight that shone brightly above them, "I'm not actually you." Pete snorted and flopped down onto the grass next to him, hot and sticky with sweat. Patrick didn't push him away when he curled up in his lap.

"That," Pete said decisively, "is the important part." He pillowed his head on Patrick's thigh and grinned up at him. "Me and you, dude. We're gonna go places."

\---

They were close. Patrick felt it in his twisted chest, his cumbersome steps made lighter by it. The reflections staring back at him were less frightening, the painful you're wrong, you're worthless, you're nothing fading away as they forced themselves onward. 

His hip clicked back into place as they stepped through a mirror. The next straightened his crooked spine. The next popped his knees back out, let him walk straighter. Beside him, Pete had grown taller, his shoulders straightening from their downward slope. Patrick's hand burned, white hot ride symbol making light bounce off the mirrors. Almost there.

In front of him, finally, was him, every imperfection stark and plain but all his, all natural. Pete looked worn, eyes dark, face drawn, but every square inch Pete. Perfect. They grinned at one another in the mirror, stepping through at the same time. 

Outside, the sky was a menacing gray, the clouds heavy and dark. The sand under their feet was hard, the grains jagged and oversized. Something felt off, even in this strange world. Around them, the world was melting. Rides and the faces of dead kids, faces of new riders, all blurring into the world and burning. A chunk of sky fell to the ground, shattering it open. The hiss and click of gears filled the air.

"You," Brendon said, appearing from nowhere. He was ragged, skin nearly yellow, hair hanging limply in front of his eyes. The thin lines of his body looked stretched, like he was barely holding himself together. Like the park was barely holding him together. "You're breaking my rules."

"I'm doing what I'm supposed to," Patrick said back. His watch ticked to five thirty. Brendon shook his head.

"You were supposed to give up. To fail." He looked up, sad and pathetic. Confused. "Everyone fails." 

"Patrick doesn't," Pete said, so honest and sure that it hurt. Patrick couldn't look at him. Brendon laughed hollowly. 

"No," he said softly. "He doesn't."

"Isn't that why you brought me?" Patrick let go of Pete, stepping forward. He felt strong and maybe a little stupid, reckless with the knowledge that he was going somewhere no one else had been able to. "To beat your game?" 

And that was it. Looking at Brendon, at the sad lines of his mouth and the tired look in his eyes, he could see the destruction there, the loss of hope. Brendon had helped him along, given him ways out when he hadn't deserved them or earned them. Brendon wanted him to win, to bring about whatever end he could. To destroy the carnival and everything it stood for. Brendon smiled, sad and childlike.

"Your friends are in The Works," he said, and another chunk of sky broke through the ground. "They fell through."

"They're coming with me," Patrick said, sure and unbearably calm. Brendon shook his head.

"No one leaves The Works." He touched a wrinkled fingertip to his pale lips, and the grey sky faded into gears and motors, the sound becoming quickly overbearing. 

As far as the eye could see giant gears and impossibly small gears, tiny wires and rope-sized cords the width of Patrick's thigh, a mess of technology and primitive pulley and lever systems, all working together to make ride after ride, to create chaos. Stark, blank faces stared out from the gears, children and teenagers melded into the metal and plastic like tools, their skin gone silver and rusted. Attached to a newer styled system, Andy and Matt worked as pumps, their hands fitted into the turning gear, metal working up their arms. Pete ran to them, skidding on the oil slicked floor. They didn't register him.

"What'd you do to them?" He hissed, turning back to Brendon. 

"What did you do to them?" Brendon retorted, climbing up onto a wobbly wooden platform. He held onto the rope supports, swinging it back and forth lazily. "You brought them here. So selfish, Wentz. What did you think? That by killing your friends and selling their immortal souls you'd get your precious light back?"

"I didn't think-"

"You never do," Brendon said, the force behind his tired voice rocking the platform further. "Isn't that your big problem? You speak before you think, you act before it can register. The way to lose friends and gather enemies. You could write a book, sell it for millions."

"Stop it," Patrick snapped, sliding his way over to Pete. He tried not to think about the vacant look in Pete's eyes.

"And you," Brendon said. "You're so afraid. Always afraid. Will they hate me? Does Pete hate me? Am I going to ruin everything?" He swung the platform harder, flashing the bottom of it at them. "Yes, Patrick. Yes, you will. You're killing Pete, you know. He failed at it, but you? You never fail." The bitter twist at the edges of his mouth was ugly, mocking. 

"Stop! Just fucking stop!" Patrick slammed a hand into a gear. The pain was instant, shooting up his arm and into his shoulder. The gear stuttered for a moment, the entire place stopping for no more than a blink of the eye before starting up again violently. Brendon laughed.

"Make me," he said. He threw his arms out, letting himself fall. His back hit the metalwork ground, head bouncing with a crack. His eyes still blinked up at the far away ceiling, his breath still came evenly. Immortal. Unable to walk away. "You've got one more ride. Get through it, and I'll let you all go. I'll open the gates and release you all, every last soul." He's going to let the park eat him, Patrick thought. He's going to feed himself to it because that's all he can do. 

"Put us on," Patrick said, finally confidant that it was going to work. They were going to make it out. Brendon rolled his head on the steel, eyes meeting Patrick's. 

"Just you," he said softly. "This is your ride."

Brendon snapped his fingers and a shiny green car drove from the metal works, stopping beside him. It was miniature, made for kids to play pretend in, a wire climbing up the back to touch the distant ceiling. Bumper cars. Patrick took a step toward it, trying to think of anything to make the trip alone easier. He wedged himself into the seat, knees up too far, plastic steering wheel biting into the soft skin of his stomach.

"Good luck," Brendon said, and The Works faded away.

\---

"Patrick," Pete had said, voice hoarse and tinny through the receiver. Patrick rubbed a hand over his eyes, still half asleep, warm under his blankets. He looked over at the dresser, blinking at the alarm clock. It read three twenty-three AM, bright red numbers blinking against the dark. Pete's side of the bed was cold, the comforter turned up and wrinkled.

"Where are you?" Patrick asked, eyes falling closed again. He could hear Pete breathing heavy, hiccupping into the phone.

"Patrick, I fucked up," Pete said, voice cracking. "I fucked up so hard. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Patrick sat up, the cold hitting him. He was still naked under the sheets, angry red scratches across his thighs. 

"What's wrong? Where are you?"

"I love you. I love you so much. I'm so sorry."

"Pete?"

"I'm sorry."

\---

The parking lot was dark, the street lights dead, the faint sign of stars hiding behind dark clouds. A blue and yellow bag blew past, the whispery sounds of it scraping over the ground almost lost under the far away sounds of cars, a city tumbleweed over the empty pavement.

Patrick shook his head. No. Not this. He wouldn't go through this again. 

The lot wasn't empty. It was never empty. In the back, almost hidden behind the store, the glare of brake lights glowed red in the darkness. The silence was tense, the apprehension thick. Patrick knew what came next, what part in the story he played.

The lights caught the curved dent in the back door of the car, Pete's car, showed a familiar set of bumper stickers pasted on haphazardly. Around it, the city seemed fuzzy, off, like a mirage. Patrick curled his hands into fists, the edge of his old cell phone biting into his skin. Puffs of smoke curled into the sky from the car's banged up exhaust pipe, the goddamned bend from running over a curb visible even from far away.

Patrick took a step forward, another. He tried to root himself to the spot, the cold biting in through his filthy jacket and ripped jeans, but his body moved without him, playing its part like it always did. His phone felt heavy in his hand, like the stone had, dead weight. The line hissed static, the radio station Pete always listened to gone dead this far out of the city. On the screen, the call timer ticked over to a half hour of call time, the seconds adding up and up and up. Pete hadn't told him where to go; he'd guessed, and he'd made too many wrong guesses, gone to too many wrong places, and Pete had stopped talking over ten minutes ago, his wrecked, wretched voice cutting off on a choked sob-

Patrick was running, heart in his throat, heartsick. He'd almost been too late before, too late to change anything, to save anything. He had a chance, now. He could change it, and fix Pete and fix them and go back and make it all right. 

Time was in slow motion. Patrick felt himself moving, could hear his breath in his ears, could see the flash of movement in the distance. He just had to move a little faster, had to get there in time. One dark hand fell through the open space of the driver's side window, so, so slow. One of the little orange bottles they kept in the bathroom rolled from Pete's fingertips, crashing to the pavement. Blue pills exploded from it, spraying over the asphalt. 

"No. No. " Patrick skid to a halt, jerking the driver's side door open. Pete fell into him, loose and cold and limp, eyes closed, the corners of his mouth white enough to be blue. Patrick shook him, hands tight around his shoulders, heartbeat making him deaf. Too late. He was always too late to save him, too late to change it. "Wake up, Pete, come on. Wake up." Patrick let out a hiss of breath, hunching over Pete's still body. "You have to wake up."

A flash of light, like a car pulling into the parking lot and then-

-the parking lot was dark, the street lights dead, the faint sign of stars hiding behind dark clouds. A blue and yellow bag blew past, the whispery sounds of it scraping over the ground almost lost under the far away sounds of cars, a city tumbleweed over the empty pavement.

Patrick blinked, his arms empty. He was back at the mouth of the parking lot, straining against the dark to see Pete's car, heart thudding in his chest from the run.

The ride had repeated. He was at the beginning again.

"Brendon," he yelled, voice echoing in the sky that wasn't really sky. He stepped forward, legs dragging him tiredly over parking spaces long empty. "Brendon!"

"I can't help you," Brendon said beside him. He looked tired and young and lost, shaking his head and staring at Pete's car. "The other rides weren't yours." 

Patrick thought of the bar and the cave and the dunk tank, thought about the white room and the hall of mirrors. The darkest parts of his friends' insides, ripped out and exposed. He'd never be able to see them the same again, not now. Not after knowing. Brendon walked alongside him, his footsteps barely making any noise. He was as much a prisoner as the rest of them, forced to play along and follow the rules.

Pete's wrist cracked on the side panel of the door, the bottle of pills fell to the pavement. Brendon stepped over them, reaching the car before Patrick could. His fingers, long and thin and skeletal, traced over the bare skin of Pete's arm, up to his elbow. Patrick surged forward. How dare he? What gave him the right?

"You have to find the way out through yourself, Patrick," Brendon said, and it sounded like a plea. "You've got to remember it all."

Patrick ripped him away from the car, jerking the door open. Pete spilled out, heavy and cold, lips gone blue white at the edges, eyes closed against his pale cheeks. Patrick cradled him close, bent over him on the cold ground, teeth clenched to keep from screaming. A flash of light, like a car pulling into the parking lot and then-

-the parking lot was dark, the streetlights dead, the faint sign of stars hiding behind dark clouds. The bag blew by. The brake lights glared. Smoke rose from the busted old exhaust pipe. Back to the beginning. Patrick's watch ticked over to six AM. 

Patrick dropped the phone in his hand, the clatter lost under the rush of thoughts in his head. Brendon had said remember. He was remembering, wasn't that the point? He was fucking terrified of losing Pete, of letting him go. Wasn't that the goddamned point of the whole fucking ride? How was he supposed to work his way out of this one?

He took a step forward, another. The cold bit at his numb fingers. What else had happened? Patrick closed his eyes, dancing light flashing behind them as his body moved on auto-pilot. A train had gone by, far away, he'd broken his phone somewhere between the mouth of the parking lot and the car. He'd thrown up on the way. Nothing important, nothing to change the ride.

He was running, legs straining and tired. Pete's hand dropped, pills scattered. Patrick skidded to his knees, yanking the door open. Pete fell, cold and so close to death Patrick could see it, white at the edges of his mouth, static filling the insides of his car, droning on and on and on like a heart monitor gone flat. 

"What happened, Pete?" Patrick whispered, clutching Pete to his chest. The body said nothing, cold and heavy over Patrick's legs. "What am I missing?" A flash of light, like a car pulling into the parking lot-

It was a car. Patrick turned his head, eyes squinted against the head lights. This was his exit, this was what he had been forgetting. An ambulance had come, sirens blaring, paramedics shouting. Pete had survived, of course he had. Patrick saw him day in, day out. He knew. A paramedic was beside him, shushing him as he took Pete's limp body carefully, carrying him to the ambulance. Patrick followed after him, rushed. His ride pass glowed hot on the back of his hand, the ride symbol printed between the ambulance's headlights matching it.

As he stumbled into the back of it, watching the paramedics strap Pete down, the world began to fade, the click of gears loud in his ears.

\---

"He's not coming, is he?" Pete had asked, small and frail, curled in on himself in the hospital bed. Joe said nothing, the tired lines under his eyes too thick for someone his age. He held Pete's hand, too tight, turning his fingers white. Andy pushed Pete's damp bangs away from his forehead. "Let him know I'm sorry. Please."

"We will," Andy said, soft and sad. 

"I didn't mean to do it, I just-"

"Lay down, Pete. You need to sleep." Andy pressed a careful hand to Pete's shoulder, forcing him back down to the mattress. The heart monitors beeped on, steady. 

"Let him know-"

"Sleep, Pete." Joe squeezed his hand before standing up, letting Andy lead him out. Patrick, leaning exhausted against the wall, closed his eyes. Joe took him up on one side, Andy on the other. "You should go in," Joe said softly.

"No." Patrick let them guide him to a waiting room chair and sit him down. He felt weak, like he couldn't hold himself up ever again. He'd almost been too late. 

\---

The midway was solid and steady under his feet, bright lights spinning across the sky. Pete was beside him, tired but alive, eyes open, mouth red and still bleeding from the dunk tank. Andy and Mixon and Joe stumbled over themselves as they ran down the dirt path, pale but human. Mixon grabbed Patrick up in a tight hug, all elbows and angles.

"Good to see you alive, dude," Matt said, breathless as everyone else grabbed on. Patrick felt hysterical and claustrophobic, so small in the middle of all of them, too many arms and legs and faces. He held on tight, anyway.

"You, too," Patrick replied, and he meant it, he meant it so much. 

"You have to leave," Brendon said, his small voice barely audible over the crash of a ride going off track. Screams filled the air. Patrick shook free of his friends, staring at him.

Brendon was a child again, so very small, his large eyes blank. The carnival around him was crumbling, gears falling from the sky, rides bursting into flames. The Ferris wheel toppled over with a great crash, dust and gravel and metal flying into the open air. 

"What about you?" Patrick reached for him, but Brendon shook his head. He smiled, and it looked real, his small face going from red to blue to green in the flashing lights.

"The captain goes down with ship." He dodged a falling gear, grabbing Patrick's hand. It was warm but not hot, damp and natural. Human like. "Thank you," he said, and then they were at the gate, filing out into the valley, and Brendon was gone again. 

Patrick tried to find him, but the push of the crowd was too strong. Kids and teenagers and wild-eyed middle aged adults fleeing from the collapsing carnival, free at last. Erica's face flashed by, panic written across her pretty features. Everyone was free.

The climb up the side of the valley was harder, Joe at the front, Pete and Patrick side by side behind him. Mixon took up the rear once more, strong and sure, pressing Andy forward. The dirt gave way under their feet as they climbed, pebbles showering down on the people below them. An ear-splitting screech of metal against metal sounded behind them, and it took more energy than Patrick could contain to not look back. The carnival was gone. The valley was nothing but stone and dirt, filled end to end with squirming people. Andy pushed at Patrick's back, shoving him up to the top of the cliff. 

The sky was a dusky pink, the sun coming up over the trees as they landed in a heap on the grassy ground, tired and bleeding and sore. Patrick pulled Pete to him, warm and solid and breathing heavy, and kissed him, tasting blood and dirt and Pete. Mixon whistled. Joe clapped.

"Come for me, okay?" Pete said against Patrick's lips, soft and far away. He faded slowly, his weight disappearing as he did. 

\---

They had to walk back to the hospital, leading a trail of confused kids along with them. They must have looked ridiculous, all torn clothing and dirty faces, but there was no one around to see. With the tail end of adrenaline wearing off, Patrick felt tired, his arms and legs heavy, eyes starting to burn with exhaustion. But, over the rest of it, he felt strong. Brave, in the most ridiculous way ever.

The silence was overbearing in the stark light of the rising sun, filled with too many questions and not enough answers, thick with secrets that were out in the open for better or worse. Joe looked haggard as he stumbled along the dirt road, wedged in too close between Patrick and Andy. Mixon had a hand on Andy’s back, usual except for the tight pinch of his fingers twisted into the dirty hood. Something dark was in Andy’s eyes, focused steady on the path in front of him.

They had changed, in one way or another, and Patrick wasn’t sure if that was going to bring them closer or rip them apart. Time would tell, and that terrified him on a level that even Brendon’s carnival hadn’t. Maybe that was the point; he couldn’t control it all. He had to wait and see, just like everyone else.

The hospital looked more welcoming than anything Patrick had ever seen. He looked up at it and Mixon shoved him, grinning. Patrick took the hint and ran, ignoring the pain in his legs and the high, hectic voices of the nurses and attendants, bolting straight to Pete’s room.

Pete was sitting up in his bed, shoveling hospital pudding into his mouth. The color had returned to his face but the dark bags under his eyes were as deep as ever. He smiled bright and wide, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an entirely familiar way. Patrick hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

The bed screeched against the ugly linoleum floor when Patrick sat heavily on it, shoving Pete’s pudding bowl away to make room for himself. He was sore and tired, but this was Pete and he loved him in a stupid, stupid way and had never stopped, even if he had tried. Pete’s laugh was loud and rich, free of the bitter, brittle edge that had been attached to it lately.

“You’re such an ass, Wentz,” Patrick said as he curled himself around Pete. Pete was real and warm and solid in his arms. Right. The thin, papery gown he wore crinkled as Pete hugged him back. It was maybe too tight, edging on the verge of hysterical, but Patrick couldn’t be happier, grinning like an idiot against the hot, damp skin of Pete’s neck.

“You love me, Rick,” Pete replied. The question was there, and Patrick felt the hurt parts of him seize up, still afraid. He shook himself away from it, resting his chin on Pete’s chest.

“Yeah,” he said. Pete rolled them over, laughing over the screech of the bed frame. Hovering over Patrick, haloed in the breaking daylight, he looked young and a little scared and happy.

“Don’t leave me again, yeah?” And then, his mouth was hot and wet against Patrick’s, familiar in a way that hurt. Patrick held onto him, fingers digging into the bare spaces of his back, kissing back like he was sixteen again, desperate to make sure it was real.

“Your ass is showing,” Joe said from the doorway. Pete flipped him off, smiling against Patrick’s lips. 

“Nice to see some things never change,” Mixon said, flopping down onto the floor in a pile. Pete settled down, snuggling in under the thin sheet, and reached for his abandoned pudding. Patrick stayed at his side. 

He wouldn't be leaving it again.


End file.
